Archive for the ‘apocalypse’ Category

ha, floppy own-brand tortilla chips, peanuts and Lilt and vodka (just a very small medical dash for my damaged tropical child) for breakfast. Happy New Year. Can’t sleep so let my betters rest. A guitar string just pinged on the wall so I must be Accompanied.

I don’t know if you use Discogs but I do and I like it. I’m not one of those psychedelic revolutionaries that acts like a soul-smarm priest who’s pretending he hasn’t got anything in his underpants. I have baby, it’s here. I believe in the meta-fundamentals of the market. I believe in the Big Deal, it is holy to me. If a has it, and b wants it, then so be it and let’s haggle the fucker across. We are good creatures, don’t get me wrong, and people forget it and then get all pious when someone helps a brother out as if it isn’t written into us like hunger, violence and sorrow, but in that sense humans are alright and can’t help but help. Ants help ants, wolves howl for the chase, Biiiig Issue etc. Yeah, but fuck the Old Ways and Record Collector and that. My The Best Of Abba used to say £40 in the Book, but, uh, the internets is grease for human souls and the funny thing about capitalism, cos all human history is irony, is that which is finessed is also almost complete & thus over, man. What I mean is the web is The Final Auction, and that goes for eBay as much as Tahrir square or whatever. OK.

So, if you’re still with me, or ever were, then here is a racing tip for the lowest common denominator written on a peice of internet paper. Our pal Si, you shall know him by his name up there, has got at least one copy of Tripel 004 going at £2. Now I don’t cast aspersions on Simon, because of what I’ve said above, and because he is someone who both likes to live simply and also used to run an online shop, and since the two are incompatible the former will inevitably win out over the latter, thank goodness fror his sake. Tripel 004?, I hear you ask in your unripe foolishness, like dogs questioning the unlikely appearance of the Ace in the great fucking help of the sleight of hand! Well, way back when when there was no history of that to make a mad old man tell it like this now, yer Dave, my fucking Dave, in his Gold-souled wish for something more meaningful than what’s measured in money, stumped up for the Split. A thousand fucking pounds. Mastered by the fucking Faroe Goodiepal on a reel-to-reel (he says) according to his special specifications. Dubplates & Mastering. A picture disc. Designed by Animals On Wheels. Me half-cut in an amusment arcade in Padstow throwing it down like a Maori warrior or some PNG shit. It’s all fucking grist. Two Thousand & Five, Dave on the concrete tip, the audio derive through the raw tripped-out beauty of sound, where even TV cookshows can get souffled into something just-so that the absence of words leaves your dumb face in a squinch whilst your mind races for HELP. You know James Ferraro? Well, it’s not like that music-wise but it isn’t just the chefs. I feel this strongly. There’s a blankness, an overloadedness of symbols, that was in the recipe. Play the records side by side. Mix them together perhaps. And yeah, it’s half a giraffe of probably the best thing I ever did or will. I’m on Discogs, and you can buy the CD-R off me for not-a-penny-less than 5 quid, and it might be the complete thing, but that record is All Gold, solid fucking gold, and the only reason you don’t know it is because nobody told you, but I’m telling you now.

So, what I’m asking you to do, is please buy the record off Simon. I think the market value is more like £4.50, at least, so you’d be getting a good deal. We still live under a capitalist system, but this is a time of renewal, traditionally. Why not make it your first symbolic purchase of 2012? Please.

I was lucky cos the first people who ever played me a load of YouTube videos one after the other for caned laffs were Noah Lennox & Ariel Rosenberg, which is kinda funny when you think about it. 2005, I suppose. My good fortune continues now that Man From Uranus lives downstairs as he is quite the maestro of the stream and even has a screen/projector combo for maximum auteurship of the webjollies. Anyway, the other night he had me in the usual state of disbelief/delight at the following clips:

Was mixing my drinks last night, with way more herbal teas than standard. Green tea, peppermint, cammomile. crashed out about 2AM after viewing the enjoyable Royal Tennenbaums with my hand on the volume knob all the way through. I could watch Gene Hackman all day. Awoke sweating after vivid dream just after 4. Dream was in the style of sophisticated and modish American TV program about a military unit engaged in jungle warfare, like a more humid version of Generation Kill. Woke up silently screaming – being pursued by guys in headscarves swarming down a hill. Outside it was a muggy, misty East Anglia.Felix’s thing was fun, although I have some regrets. They are:

Should have taken more pictures because it was hard to take a bad one, especially at the party.
Wish Felix DJed the 7″ singles he asked us all to bring (one each was stipulated, although I brought about 6 and Dave brought 3), or maybe even asked me and Dave to DJ, although he probably doesn’t know quite how talented we are in that regard. He certainly didn’t know I had brought my MP3 player with minijack to RCA phono adaptors just in case.
I regret being totally fucking partied out by about 1.30AM, thereby not getting to actually talk that much to people.
I regret telling Mariola’s daughter that she sounded like her Mum. What I meant was that I’d been trying to discern evidence of her maternal origins all evening and suddenly I caught a glimpse in her manner, in a sudden intensity of expression. Even Bobby, who isn’t synonymous with propriety, was more or less aghast at this gauche error.

Treated Belgium and London as one long holiday and I’m a little tired and bored of myself now. I’m sure burning the candle on and off uses more wax or something. Anyway, you lot babysit the apocalypse for a bit. I’m getting an early night.